A Family Affair
Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to the Witchblade characters. I'm just borrowing them for a wee bit. Okay, maybe not a wee bit. Enjoy!
Chapter 42.
Despite her bone-deep exhaustion, Sara maintained a vigil over her Protector, anxiously watching and waiting to see if the antidote had been administered in time, and, more importantly, whether Ian Nottingham had found the will to live. Minutes felt like hours as they crawled by. Frighteningly, his fever reached 106.4, causing him to become semi- delirious. He began to toss and turn restlessly, regardless of his injuries, and Sara quickly discovered that the only thing that would calm him was her touch and the sound of her voice. He would still as soon as she placed a cool hand upon his burning forehead, and the lines of suffering on his haggard face and the tension in his sorely abused body would ease. Saying anything that came into her head, she spoke to him constantly in a low murmur. Outside, the wind howled and the snow increased in intensity as the ferocious early winter storm pounded the tri- state area.
Sara developed a kink in her back from sitting on the side of the bed in an awkward position, and she decided to change out of her jeans and cropped top into something more comfortable.
"Ian, I'll be right back, okay?" she told him, not expecting a response. Aside from occasionally muttering feverishly, he had not spoken since receiving the antidote.
"Where are you going?" he asked querulously, without opening his eyes.
"Just to grab something from my bag in the living room," she said, gently tucking a curl behind his ear. "I'll only be a minute, okay?"
He nodded, but as soon as she broke physical contact, he swiftly became restless again, scowling and kicking at the blankets covering his overheated body. Going into the living room, Sara hurriedly changed into her sleepwear of choice -- boxer shorts and an oversized T-shirt -- leaving her discarded clothing in a heap on the floor. And although she could hear that Nottingham was becoming more and more agitated, she took another minute to get a couple of painkillers from the first-aid kit and to fill a large bowl with water and ice cubes. When she walked back into the bedroom, Ian was struggling to free himself from the tangle of sheets and blankets in order to get out of the bed.
"Sara!" he shouted frantically, "Sara!"
Rushing to the bedside, she set the bowl down on the floor next to the night table. "Shhh, shhh, I'm back, Ian," she soothed him, caressing his hot face.
"Where did you go? I woke up and you were gone," he murmured, bloodshot eyes staring up at her accusingly. He groaned, grimacing, his right hand grasping his side. "My ribs and my shoulder hurt, Sara. A lot."
"I've got something that'll make you feel better soon," she told him. "Open your mouth." Obediently, he did so, and she placed the painkillers on his tongue and then brought the mug of cold peppermint tea to his lips. "Drink a little of this," she coaxed him. Thirstily, he drank the entire mug. She poured him some more, but he refused it, so she set it on the night table.
"Let's get these blankets straightened out," she said, wondering how on earth he had managed to get them so thoroughly tangled around himself in the few minutes she'd been gone.
He frowned, flinging the blankets off as soon as she covered him with them. "I am already too hot. I have a very high fever, Sara," he informed her.
"You'll catch a chill if you don't keep them on, Ian," she tried reasoning with him.
"No," he scowled, "I think they are making me delirious."
"Okay, let's compromise. If you keep one blanket and one comforter on, I'll lie down on the bed next to you," she cajoled.
"All right," he agreed instantly, eyeing the long, shapely legs that her boxer shorts revealed.
'Delirious my ass,' Sara thought, hiding a smile as she spread a cotton thermal blanket and then one of the down comforters over him. She folded the two other cotton blankets, setting them aside, and tossed the other comforter onto the other side of the bed.
Picking up the bowl of ice water, she grabbed a washcloth from the linen closet before climbing onto the bed to sit cross-legged beside Ian, careful not to jar him. Soaking the washcloth and then wringing it out, she applied a cold compress to his forehead.
"You are too kind to me, my Lady," he murmured, head falling back against the pillows.
"Anything for my Protector," Sara told him, smiling.
Several minutes later, his big body began to visibly relax. "Ahhh, sweet, lovely Demerol," Ian sighed, eyelids drooping. Rousing, he attempted to level a stern look at her, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the goofy grin on his face. "You might catch a chill, Sara. Perhaps you should get under the covers with me," he told her.
"Uh, I'm fine. Does this mean you're no longer dying?" she asked him wryly.
"You, in bed, with me," he whispered, eyes closing. "I think I have already died and gone to heaven."
"Good answer," Sara grinned, but he had fallen asleep.
Shortly after midnight, Nottingham's fever finally broke. Perspiration began pouring off of him, quickly soaking the sheets and cotton blanket. Sara changed the top sheet and replaced the wet blanket with a dry one, but decided there wasn't anything she could do about the bottom sheet. Ian roused briefly, and she got him to drink more tea and to let her take his temperature. It was 104.5, and she whispered a devout prayer of thanks. Her Protector was on the mend. He fell into a deeper, more restful sleep, and now that his crisis had passed, Sara's eyelids began to grow heavy. Days of little to no sleep and an inhuman amount of stress were finally catching up to her. She decided to lie down next to Ian and grab a quick nap. The last thing she remembered was covering herself with the other down comforter.
Ian's restless movements awakened her. Groggily, she glanced at the clock and was appalled to realize that eight hours had passed, although it felt like she had only been asleep for a few minutes. It was 9:30 a.m.
"Thirsty," Nottingham whispered, and Sara sat up and carefully scrambled off the bed. She poured him the last of the peppermint tea, and he drank it down eagerly.
"I'll go brew some more," she said, and with an obvious effort, he managed to open his eyes halfway.
"More painkillers, please," he murmured, wincing, his right hand going to his shoulder beneath the covers.
"Coming right up." After a quick trip to the bathroom, Sara went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Thirstily, she drank two glasses of water before pouring another one for Nottingham, which he downed along with two Tylenol with Codeine tablets. Within minutes, he had fallen asleep again.
Sara got out her cell phone and called Danny Woo.
"Woo residence," her partner answered the phone.
"Hey, Danny, it's me."
"Pez! How goes it?"
"Ian's on the mend," she told him.
"That's good news."
"Listen, could you do me a favor and call the job for me? Tell them I'm gonna take some sick time for the next few days," she requested.
"Um, have you looked outside yet, Pez?" Danny said. "We're socked in. Governor Pataki has declared a state of emergency, which means all nonessential personnel are banned from the roads. There's already more than a foot of snow on the ground, and it's still coming down like crazy."
It was only then that Sara became aware of the gusts of wind buffeting the garage apartment. She glanced out the window and saw nothing but white. Even her brother's house right across the driveway wasn't visible. "Wow!" she breathed.
"It's a blizzard, baby!" Danny crowed.
"You don't have to sound so happy about it," Sara grumbled.
"I'm just glad me and my family are inside and cozy," he said. "You still sound whipped, Pez."
"I am. Things got pretty rough last night before Ian's fever broke, and I didn't exactly get a lot of sleep over the past few days," she murmured.
"Well, the way it's snowing, we might not be able to get into work until midweek! But on Monday, I'll call the job for you and tell them that you're taking some sick leave. Get some rest, and I'll speak to you soon, okay?
"Thanks, partner. Bye." Sara hung up and then immediately called Vicky's cell phone.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Vic. It's me."
"Sara! How's it going?"
"Jake is right there, hunh?"
"Yup, we just woke up. Say, 'Hi, Sara,' Jake," Vicky said. "Hi, Sara," she heard Jake say in the background.
"Tell him I said 'hi,'" Sara said.
"Sara says 'hi,' Jake. So, how's the head?" Vicky asked, tongue firmly in cheek.
"It was touch and go for a while there, but Ian's fever finally broke a little after midnight. He's still in a lot of pain, but I'm medicating him, and he's resting," Sara told her.
"I'm really glad you're feeling better, girlfriend."
"How are things going at Chez McCartey?"
"Oh, we're having a ball, right Jake?"
"Absolutely," Sara heard the blond rookie say.
"I'm glad to hear that, Vic," Sara told her truthfully. "Listen, should I change that bandage on Nottingham's thigh today? Or will it be all right until tomorrow?"
"It's supposed to snow until tomorrow," Vicky said.
"Gotcha. Oh, I'm taking some sick leave next week, so I probably won't see you until after Thanksgiving. Thanks again for helping Ian out," she said. "I owe you one."
"Anytime. Try to relax and get some more rest, and I'll see you when you get back to work, okay?" Vicky said.
"Yeah. Bye." Sara called Gabriel Bowman next.
"Talismaniac. Having trouble conceiving? I've got just the fertility goddess statue that'll do the trick."
"Hey, Gabriel."
"Chief! Hey, how's Nottingham?"
"Better. Turns out the antidote to the poison was hidden in the lining of his coat all along. After hiding it there, this Dr. Immo guy gave Ian a subliminal message telling him where it was, and he figured out what it meant in the nick of time."
"Wow, that's amazing. How are you holding up?" Gabriel asked.
"I managed to sleep for eight hours last night but it barely put a dent in my exhaustion," she told him truthfully. "Luckily, Ian hasn't required much in the way of nursing so far, just liquids and pain pills." The kettle started to shrill, and turning off the flame, Sara poured the hot water over several teabags. Peppermint-scented steam wafted upward.
"Well, at least you don't have to think about going into work today. This is some storm, hunh?"
"Yeah. I asked Danny to tell the job that I'm taking some sick leave next week. Ian is probably gonna be laid up for some time and I could really use the rest."
"Don't be surprised if he turns out to be a really quick healer, Chief," Gabriel told her.
"He's got broken ribs and a severely strained shoulder. I don't think he'll be kung fu fighting anytime soon."
"Yeah, but something still tells me he'll be up and around sooner than you think."
"Probably not soon enough though. I'm worried Irons is going to send some of his goons after him once the city digs out from this storm."
"I hate to say this, but you're probably right. Irons will not take no for an answer where a prized possession like Nottingham is concerned."
"But what really scares me is my suspicion that Ian might not object too strongly when the time comes."
"You think he'll go back to Irons even after what he did to him?"
"Irons is his father, Gabriel. At least, that's what Ian thinks of him as," Sara told him.
"His father? Wow, that's deep. It's always been rumored that Irons has a kid floating around somewhere, but nobody's ever been able to prove it. I never would have guessed it was Nottingham."
"Well, he says he's not sure if Irons really is his biological father, but the twisted bastard is the only parent he's ever known," Sara told her friend. She looked in on the sleeping man before closing the bedroom door and taking a seat on the futon. "Gabriel, when I tried to heal Ian with the Witchblade, It gave me a vision."
"I was wondering if you had gone ahead and tried that," Gabriel murmured. "Obviously, it didn't work."
"Yeah. Apparently, that's because only injuries a Protector receives while defending his Wielder are capable of being healed by the Witchblade. The woman who came to me in the vision informed me of this. She also said her name was Elizabeth Bronte, and that she was the last True Wielder before me. Plus, she was a dead ringer for yours truly. What do you know about her, Gabriel? Did she really exist?"
"Yeah, she did, but, unfortunately, there's not a lot of info out there about her. It was rumored that she was a spy for both the U.S. and British Intelligence during World War II, but those records are sealed and will be for some time. However, it is well known that Adolph Hitler was an avid collector of objects of power. The story goes that in exchange for promising not to loot and destroy the Vatican, he was given the Witchblade by the Roman Catholic church, which had kept It hidden away for centuries. Apparently, Elizabeth Bronte was the mistress of a high-ranking S.S. officer. Somehow, she charmed her lover into letting her wear the Witchblade and It recognized her as a True Wielder. Rumor has it that, with the Witchblade's aid, she was instrumental in helping the allies crack the Enigma code, which ultimately led to the Germans' defeat. However, shortly after the war ended, she disappeared, never to be heard from again," Gabriel told her.
"Well, if the vision was telling the truth, I know what became of her. Kenneth Irons murdered her and her Protector and took the Witchblade from her. She hinted that she and Irons were once lovers, but I don't see how that's possible. Irons doesn't look a day over 35 and you're telling me that Elizabeth Bronte was my age during World War II."
"Yeah, but Irons tried to wield the Witchblade once, and although It rejected him, It gave him what you now possess: a considerably extended lifespan. Irons real birth date is a carefully guarded secret, but estimates put him closer to 100 than 35."
"No shit? You mean if I'm still alive 50 years from now, I'll look the same age that I do now?"
"Pretty much, yeah."
"What about Nottingham?"
"Since he was born with a bond to the Witchblade, the same will probably hold true for him. He'll age, but very slowly."
"Wow. It's gonna be pretty hard to explain to the job why I'm putting in for a pension when I still look 30," Sara murmured. A huge yawn caught her by surprise.
"Get some more sleep, Chief," Gabriel said, obviously hearing it. "I'll talk to you in a couple of days."
"Yeah. And thanks for the info," Sara said. "Bye, Gabriel." She hung up and sat there mulling over what her friend had just told her. A sound from the bedroom roused her a short while later, and she realized that she'd dozed off. When she opened the bedroom door, she was stunned to see Ian sitting on the side of the bed in preparation of getting up.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Where do you think you're going?" Sara asked him, moving to stand in front of him.
"I woke up and you were gone," Ian said, blinking blearily up at her.
"I was just in the kitchen making more peppermint tea," she told him. "I didn't go anywhere. Here, lie back down," she said, attempting to straighten the bedclothes, which had gotten tangled around him again.
"I need to use the bathroom," he muttered, rubbing his face.
"Okay, but then I want you to get right back in bed," Sara said, freeing him from the blankets and sheet. "Do you need me to help you?"
"No," Ian said. He sat there for another minute, summoning the energy to move. Finally, he managed to get to his feet and slowly weave his way to the bathroom.
Since his back was to her, Sara felt free to ogle his firm backside, but then she blinked in astonishment. The half-healed welts and cuts she had noticed on his back the night before had vanished. Only scars were now visible. Either the Witchblade had healed his back or, as Gabriel had hinted, Nottingham was an extremely fast healer. Shaking her head, she stripped the bed, glad to discover that a waterproof mattress pad had been beneath the bottom sheet. She found another one in the linen closet and put it on along with a fresh set of sheets and pillowcases. Then, remembering what Joey had said about the grad student who'd been renting the apartment, she looked through the wardrobe across from the bed. Apparently, the guy preferred boxer shorts because that was the only underwear she could find. She chose a pair and knocked on the bathroom door before opening it and thrusting her arm inside.
"Here's some clean underwear," she said.
"Thank you," Ian said, taking them from her. "I will be out shortly." 'If I can find the strength to move again,' he thought wearily, distressed by how weak and exhausted he still felt. He looked at the underwear. 'Boxers. It figures.' Even half awake, he'd been hard put not to stare at the expanse of bare skin Sara's own boxer shorts exposed. Her long, slender legs were muscular but shapely, and her feet were surprisingly dainty. Apparently, she'd felt no such compunction about staring: he'd felt her gaze on him as he unsteadily made his way to the bathroom.
It took him several minutes to don the shorts one-handed and when he came out of the bathroom, he was relieved to find the bedroom empty again. He wobbled over to the bed and sat down on it, managing to pull the cotton thermal blanket around himself with some difficulty before leaning back against the corduroy reading pillow and lifting his legs onto the bed, covering them and his lower body with the sheet. Sara had thoughtfully placed a towel over the reading pillow, which had gotten soaked with perspiration the night before. Ian smelled toast, butter, scrambled eggs, and peppermint tea. His stomach growled loudly, and he realized that, for the first time in days, he was famished.
Sara came into the bedroom moments later carrying a tray. "I made some scrambled eggs and toast and a fresh pot of peppermint tea. Think you could eat something?" she asked him.
"Yes, I think I could," he said.
Setting the tray down, she carefully climbed onto the bed to sit cross-legged beside him. She handed him a plate with three pieces of buttered toast and a steaming heap of scrambled eggs on it, which he balanced on his lap. They munched their breakfast in companionable silence, Sara obligingly handing him his mug of tea from time to time. Halfway through his third piece of toast, Ian felt his eyelids start to grow heavy and was unable to stifle a yawn.
"I think I will take a nap," he said, handing his plate to her. "Thank you for making breakfast, Sara."
"You're welcome, although I should probably warn you that this is about as good as it gets. I can't cook to save my life," she told him, putting their mugs and her own plate back onto the tray before scooting off the bed with it. "I nearly always burn the scrambled eggs. You were in luck today."
"I know how to make omelets. Cook taught me when I was a boy," Ian murmured, yawning again. "Perhaps I will make us omelets for breakfast tomorrow."
"That would be a neat trick with just one hand," Sara said, but he didn't respond, having fallen asleep again.
'A nap is a really good idea,' she thought as she did the dishes. Going back into the bedroom, she covered Ian with one of the down comforters and repositioned the pillow behind his tousled head so he wouldn't develop a crick in his neck. Other than heaving a small sigh, he didn't stir at her touch. Sara picked up the other down comforter with the intention of taking it out to the living room and making up the futon, but then decided she was just too tired to go through all that trouble. Shrugging, she crawled back onto the bed next to Nottingham, covered herself, and fell asleep listening to the comforting sound of his deep, steady breathing.
Her bladder's insistent signals brought her out of a dreamless sleep some time later. She started to sit up but then froze, simultaneously becoming aware of two things: that she was spooning with someone and that that someone was Ian Nottingham. He lay on his right side, as did she, his big, warm body touching hers from her calves to her shoulders, as if it was the most natural thing in the world and they had slept this way a thousand times before. Her head was resting on his right arm, and she was appalled to notice that a small pool of her saliva had gathered on his enormous bicep. Sara also realized that he had somehow managed to take off his sling and that his left arm was draped over her body, his muscular forearm right beneath her breasts. Color flooded her face as she also discovered that his hand had worked its way beneath her T-shirt, and was now cupping her right breast. Lifting her head and craning her neck, she looked at Nottingham's face, which was inches from her own, and was immediately struck by how young he looked when he was asleep. But then, unable to ignore her painfully full bladder any longer, she slowly and carefully grasped his left wrist and started to lift his arm. She froze as he stirred, murmuring something, and then bit back a gasp as his fingers flexed, brushing her breast. Glancing back at his face, she blinked as she met sleepy hazel eyes.
"Good morning, my Lady," he murmured, and she could feel the vibration of his words against her back.
"Uh, good morning," she said, and then cleared her throat. "I, uh, have to get up, so, um, could you, uh, move your arm?" She tapped his wrist, then bit her lip when this made his fingers brush her breast again.
Now it was his turn to blink. "Move my arm?" She saw his gaze travel downward. His eyes widened and she was fascinated to see color redden his cheeks. He snatched his hand from beneath her shirt as if it had been burned, and then flinched, wincing, his right hand going to his shoulder. Hastily, Sara put several inches between their bodies, and then sat up and glanced over at the bedside clock. 'That can't be right,' she thought. It said 8:30 a.m., and it had been 10:30 a.m. when she fell asleep. 'The power must have gone out or something,' she decided. But the clock wasn't blinking "12:00," which would have been a clear indication of a power outage, meaning she and Nottingham had slept for nearly 24 hours. 'No wonder I have to pee so badly,' she thought. 'He probably has to go, too!' she realized.
"I'll only be a minute," she mumbled, scrambling off the bed and disappearing into the bathroom.
When she came out, Ian was standing at the window staring out at the snow. She felt a stab of disappointment as she saw that he'd draped one of the cotton blankets around his shoulders, hiding his magnificent body from view.
"There must more than two feet on the ground," he said without looking around.
"And it's still coming down," she observed.
He glanced at her before looking outside again. "Yes, but not very heavily. I think it will stop soon."
"You do realize we slept for almost a whole day, right?"
"Yes. We must have needed it. I know I did." He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "If you will excuse me, my Lady," he murmured, and then stepped around her and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
'He really is shy,' Sara thought with some amusement. 'He can hardly bring himself to look at me, and I'm not even what you'd call scantily clad.' She decided to take pity on him. Going into the living room, she got out her toiletries and a change of clothes, deciding that she would take a much-needed shower and then get dressed.
"I'm gonna take a shower, but I'll keep it brief so there's some hot water left for you," she told him when he came out of the bathroom a moment later. She took a bath towel and a washcloth from the linen closet.
"I would also like to take a shower, but I do not have any clean clothing or toiletries with me," Ian said, eyes downcast.
"Ah, lucky for you, the guy who was renting this place is about your size. As long as we launder whatever you wear, I'm sure he wouldn't mind you borrowing some of his clothes." She nodded toward the wardrobe opposite the bed. "Everything you'll need is in there. And he left some shampoo and stuff in the bathroom, too. Or you could use my shampoo and bath gel if you don't mind smelling kinda girly," she told him.
One of his brief, almost-smiles made an appearance. "Thank you for the kind offer, my Lady," he murmured, bowing his head and glancing up at her through his lashes.
Sara started to enter the bathroom but paused. "I'm curious: Did you think those boxers I gave you were mine?" she asked him.
Again, his gaze briefly flicked in her direction. "I really had not given much thought as to where they came from," he lied.
"Huh. For the record, I wouldn't be caught dead in those," she said, eyeing what she could see of them. They were white satin covered with big, bright red hearts. She shrugged. "I just grabbed the first pair I found in the wardrobe," she lied, barely able to keep from smirking. "Well, I'll be out in ten minutes."
"Take your time, my Lady. I will make us breakfast while you are showering," he told her, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him and his ridiculous, borrowed shorts. "It should be done by the time you are finished."
"Omelets?" Suddenly, an image of Ian standing at the stove in nothing but those silly boxer shorts popped into her mind's eye, and she could not refrain from grinning.
"My specialty," he nodded, eyeing her askance.
"Yum. I'm starving! See you in a bit," she said and actually started to giggle before she could retreat into the bathroom.
The sneaking suspicion that her amusement was at his expense made Ian stare thoughtfully at the closed bathroom door for a long moment before he crossed to the wardrobe and began looking through it for a robe and a less eye-catching pair of underwear.
More to come. As always, thanks to all of you for your wonderful feedback. Please, keep it coming! Anyone care to take bets on how long Sara can resist jumping Ian's bones? Stay tuned!
Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to the Witchblade characters. I'm just borrowing them for a wee bit. Okay, maybe not a wee bit. Enjoy!
Chapter 42.
Despite her bone-deep exhaustion, Sara maintained a vigil over her Protector, anxiously watching and waiting to see if the antidote had been administered in time, and, more importantly, whether Ian Nottingham had found the will to live. Minutes felt like hours as they crawled by. Frighteningly, his fever reached 106.4, causing him to become semi- delirious. He began to toss and turn restlessly, regardless of his injuries, and Sara quickly discovered that the only thing that would calm him was her touch and the sound of her voice. He would still as soon as she placed a cool hand upon his burning forehead, and the lines of suffering on his haggard face and the tension in his sorely abused body would ease. Saying anything that came into her head, she spoke to him constantly in a low murmur. Outside, the wind howled and the snow increased in intensity as the ferocious early winter storm pounded the tri- state area.
Sara developed a kink in her back from sitting on the side of the bed in an awkward position, and she decided to change out of her jeans and cropped top into something more comfortable.
"Ian, I'll be right back, okay?" she told him, not expecting a response. Aside from occasionally muttering feverishly, he had not spoken since receiving the antidote.
"Where are you going?" he asked querulously, without opening his eyes.
"Just to grab something from my bag in the living room," she said, gently tucking a curl behind his ear. "I'll only be a minute, okay?"
He nodded, but as soon as she broke physical contact, he swiftly became restless again, scowling and kicking at the blankets covering his overheated body. Going into the living room, Sara hurriedly changed into her sleepwear of choice -- boxer shorts and an oversized T-shirt -- leaving her discarded clothing in a heap on the floor. And although she could hear that Nottingham was becoming more and more agitated, she took another minute to get a couple of painkillers from the first-aid kit and to fill a large bowl with water and ice cubes. When she walked back into the bedroom, Ian was struggling to free himself from the tangle of sheets and blankets in order to get out of the bed.
"Sara!" he shouted frantically, "Sara!"
Rushing to the bedside, she set the bowl down on the floor next to the night table. "Shhh, shhh, I'm back, Ian," she soothed him, caressing his hot face.
"Where did you go? I woke up and you were gone," he murmured, bloodshot eyes staring up at her accusingly. He groaned, grimacing, his right hand grasping his side. "My ribs and my shoulder hurt, Sara. A lot."
"I've got something that'll make you feel better soon," she told him. "Open your mouth." Obediently, he did so, and she placed the painkillers on his tongue and then brought the mug of cold peppermint tea to his lips. "Drink a little of this," she coaxed him. Thirstily, he drank the entire mug. She poured him some more, but he refused it, so she set it on the night table.
"Let's get these blankets straightened out," she said, wondering how on earth he had managed to get them so thoroughly tangled around himself in the few minutes she'd been gone.
He frowned, flinging the blankets off as soon as she covered him with them. "I am already too hot. I have a very high fever, Sara," he informed her.
"You'll catch a chill if you don't keep them on, Ian," she tried reasoning with him.
"No," he scowled, "I think they are making me delirious."
"Okay, let's compromise. If you keep one blanket and one comforter on, I'll lie down on the bed next to you," she cajoled.
"All right," he agreed instantly, eyeing the long, shapely legs that her boxer shorts revealed.
'Delirious my ass,' Sara thought, hiding a smile as she spread a cotton thermal blanket and then one of the down comforters over him. She folded the two other cotton blankets, setting them aside, and tossed the other comforter onto the other side of the bed.
Picking up the bowl of ice water, she grabbed a washcloth from the linen closet before climbing onto the bed to sit cross-legged beside Ian, careful not to jar him. Soaking the washcloth and then wringing it out, she applied a cold compress to his forehead.
"You are too kind to me, my Lady," he murmured, head falling back against the pillows.
"Anything for my Protector," Sara told him, smiling.
Several minutes later, his big body began to visibly relax. "Ahhh, sweet, lovely Demerol," Ian sighed, eyelids drooping. Rousing, he attempted to level a stern look at her, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the goofy grin on his face. "You might catch a chill, Sara. Perhaps you should get under the covers with me," he told her.
"Uh, I'm fine. Does this mean you're no longer dying?" she asked him wryly.
"You, in bed, with me," he whispered, eyes closing. "I think I have already died and gone to heaven."
"Good answer," Sara grinned, but he had fallen asleep.
Shortly after midnight, Nottingham's fever finally broke. Perspiration began pouring off of him, quickly soaking the sheets and cotton blanket. Sara changed the top sheet and replaced the wet blanket with a dry one, but decided there wasn't anything she could do about the bottom sheet. Ian roused briefly, and she got him to drink more tea and to let her take his temperature. It was 104.5, and she whispered a devout prayer of thanks. Her Protector was on the mend. He fell into a deeper, more restful sleep, and now that his crisis had passed, Sara's eyelids began to grow heavy. Days of little to no sleep and an inhuman amount of stress were finally catching up to her. She decided to lie down next to Ian and grab a quick nap. The last thing she remembered was covering herself with the other down comforter.
Ian's restless movements awakened her. Groggily, she glanced at the clock and was appalled to realize that eight hours had passed, although it felt like she had only been asleep for a few minutes. It was 9:30 a.m.
"Thirsty," Nottingham whispered, and Sara sat up and carefully scrambled off the bed. She poured him the last of the peppermint tea, and he drank it down eagerly.
"I'll go brew some more," she said, and with an obvious effort, he managed to open his eyes halfway.
"More painkillers, please," he murmured, wincing, his right hand going to his shoulder beneath the covers.
"Coming right up." After a quick trip to the bathroom, Sara went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Thirstily, she drank two glasses of water before pouring another one for Nottingham, which he downed along with two Tylenol with Codeine tablets. Within minutes, he had fallen asleep again.
Sara got out her cell phone and called Danny Woo.
"Woo residence," her partner answered the phone.
"Hey, Danny, it's me."
"Pez! How goes it?"
"Ian's on the mend," she told him.
"That's good news."
"Listen, could you do me a favor and call the job for me? Tell them I'm gonna take some sick time for the next few days," she requested.
"Um, have you looked outside yet, Pez?" Danny said. "We're socked in. Governor Pataki has declared a state of emergency, which means all nonessential personnel are banned from the roads. There's already more than a foot of snow on the ground, and it's still coming down like crazy."
It was only then that Sara became aware of the gusts of wind buffeting the garage apartment. She glanced out the window and saw nothing but white. Even her brother's house right across the driveway wasn't visible. "Wow!" she breathed.
"It's a blizzard, baby!" Danny crowed.
"You don't have to sound so happy about it," Sara grumbled.
"I'm just glad me and my family are inside and cozy," he said. "You still sound whipped, Pez."
"I am. Things got pretty rough last night before Ian's fever broke, and I didn't exactly get a lot of sleep over the past few days," she murmured.
"Well, the way it's snowing, we might not be able to get into work until midweek! But on Monday, I'll call the job for you and tell them that you're taking some sick leave. Get some rest, and I'll speak to you soon, okay?
"Thanks, partner. Bye." Sara hung up and then immediately called Vicky's cell phone.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Vic. It's me."
"Sara! How's it going?"
"Jake is right there, hunh?"
"Yup, we just woke up. Say, 'Hi, Sara,' Jake," Vicky said. "Hi, Sara," she heard Jake say in the background.
"Tell him I said 'hi,'" Sara said.
"Sara says 'hi,' Jake. So, how's the head?" Vicky asked, tongue firmly in cheek.
"It was touch and go for a while there, but Ian's fever finally broke a little after midnight. He's still in a lot of pain, but I'm medicating him, and he's resting," Sara told her.
"I'm really glad you're feeling better, girlfriend."
"How are things going at Chez McCartey?"
"Oh, we're having a ball, right Jake?"
"Absolutely," Sara heard the blond rookie say.
"I'm glad to hear that, Vic," Sara told her truthfully. "Listen, should I change that bandage on Nottingham's thigh today? Or will it be all right until tomorrow?"
"It's supposed to snow until tomorrow," Vicky said.
"Gotcha. Oh, I'm taking some sick leave next week, so I probably won't see you until after Thanksgiving. Thanks again for helping Ian out," she said. "I owe you one."
"Anytime. Try to relax and get some more rest, and I'll see you when you get back to work, okay?" Vicky said.
"Yeah. Bye." Sara called Gabriel Bowman next.
"Talismaniac. Having trouble conceiving? I've got just the fertility goddess statue that'll do the trick."
"Hey, Gabriel."
"Chief! Hey, how's Nottingham?"
"Better. Turns out the antidote to the poison was hidden in the lining of his coat all along. After hiding it there, this Dr. Immo guy gave Ian a subliminal message telling him where it was, and he figured out what it meant in the nick of time."
"Wow, that's amazing. How are you holding up?" Gabriel asked.
"I managed to sleep for eight hours last night but it barely put a dent in my exhaustion," she told him truthfully. "Luckily, Ian hasn't required much in the way of nursing so far, just liquids and pain pills." The kettle started to shrill, and turning off the flame, Sara poured the hot water over several teabags. Peppermint-scented steam wafted upward.
"Well, at least you don't have to think about going into work today. This is some storm, hunh?"
"Yeah. I asked Danny to tell the job that I'm taking some sick leave next week. Ian is probably gonna be laid up for some time and I could really use the rest."
"Don't be surprised if he turns out to be a really quick healer, Chief," Gabriel told her.
"He's got broken ribs and a severely strained shoulder. I don't think he'll be kung fu fighting anytime soon."
"Yeah, but something still tells me he'll be up and around sooner than you think."
"Probably not soon enough though. I'm worried Irons is going to send some of his goons after him once the city digs out from this storm."
"I hate to say this, but you're probably right. Irons will not take no for an answer where a prized possession like Nottingham is concerned."
"But what really scares me is my suspicion that Ian might not object too strongly when the time comes."
"You think he'll go back to Irons even after what he did to him?"
"Irons is his father, Gabriel. At least, that's what Ian thinks of him as," Sara told him.
"His father? Wow, that's deep. It's always been rumored that Irons has a kid floating around somewhere, but nobody's ever been able to prove it. I never would have guessed it was Nottingham."
"Well, he says he's not sure if Irons really is his biological father, but the twisted bastard is the only parent he's ever known," Sara told her friend. She looked in on the sleeping man before closing the bedroom door and taking a seat on the futon. "Gabriel, when I tried to heal Ian with the Witchblade, It gave me a vision."
"I was wondering if you had gone ahead and tried that," Gabriel murmured. "Obviously, it didn't work."
"Yeah. Apparently, that's because only injuries a Protector receives while defending his Wielder are capable of being healed by the Witchblade. The woman who came to me in the vision informed me of this. She also said her name was Elizabeth Bronte, and that she was the last True Wielder before me. Plus, she was a dead ringer for yours truly. What do you know about her, Gabriel? Did she really exist?"
"Yeah, she did, but, unfortunately, there's not a lot of info out there about her. It was rumored that she was a spy for both the U.S. and British Intelligence during World War II, but those records are sealed and will be for some time. However, it is well known that Adolph Hitler was an avid collector of objects of power. The story goes that in exchange for promising not to loot and destroy the Vatican, he was given the Witchblade by the Roman Catholic church, which had kept It hidden away for centuries. Apparently, Elizabeth Bronte was the mistress of a high-ranking S.S. officer. Somehow, she charmed her lover into letting her wear the Witchblade and It recognized her as a True Wielder. Rumor has it that, with the Witchblade's aid, she was instrumental in helping the allies crack the Enigma code, which ultimately led to the Germans' defeat. However, shortly after the war ended, she disappeared, never to be heard from again," Gabriel told her.
"Well, if the vision was telling the truth, I know what became of her. Kenneth Irons murdered her and her Protector and took the Witchblade from her. She hinted that she and Irons were once lovers, but I don't see how that's possible. Irons doesn't look a day over 35 and you're telling me that Elizabeth Bronte was my age during World War II."
"Yeah, but Irons tried to wield the Witchblade once, and although It rejected him, It gave him what you now possess: a considerably extended lifespan. Irons real birth date is a carefully guarded secret, but estimates put him closer to 100 than 35."
"No shit? You mean if I'm still alive 50 years from now, I'll look the same age that I do now?"
"Pretty much, yeah."
"What about Nottingham?"
"Since he was born with a bond to the Witchblade, the same will probably hold true for him. He'll age, but very slowly."
"Wow. It's gonna be pretty hard to explain to the job why I'm putting in for a pension when I still look 30," Sara murmured. A huge yawn caught her by surprise.
"Get some more sleep, Chief," Gabriel said, obviously hearing it. "I'll talk to you in a couple of days."
"Yeah. And thanks for the info," Sara said. "Bye, Gabriel." She hung up and sat there mulling over what her friend had just told her. A sound from the bedroom roused her a short while later, and she realized that she'd dozed off. When she opened the bedroom door, she was stunned to see Ian sitting on the side of the bed in preparation of getting up.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Where do you think you're going?" Sara asked him, moving to stand in front of him.
"I woke up and you were gone," Ian said, blinking blearily up at her.
"I was just in the kitchen making more peppermint tea," she told him. "I didn't go anywhere. Here, lie back down," she said, attempting to straighten the bedclothes, which had gotten tangled around him again.
"I need to use the bathroom," he muttered, rubbing his face.
"Okay, but then I want you to get right back in bed," Sara said, freeing him from the blankets and sheet. "Do you need me to help you?"
"No," Ian said. He sat there for another minute, summoning the energy to move. Finally, he managed to get to his feet and slowly weave his way to the bathroom.
Since his back was to her, Sara felt free to ogle his firm backside, but then she blinked in astonishment. The half-healed welts and cuts she had noticed on his back the night before had vanished. Only scars were now visible. Either the Witchblade had healed his back or, as Gabriel had hinted, Nottingham was an extremely fast healer. Shaking her head, she stripped the bed, glad to discover that a waterproof mattress pad had been beneath the bottom sheet. She found another one in the linen closet and put it on along with a fresh set of sheets and pillowcases. Then, remembering what Joey had said about the grad student who'd been renting the apartment, she looked through the wardrobe across from the bed. Apparently, the guy preferred boxer shorts because that was the only underwear she could find. She chose a pair and knocked on the bathroom door before opening it and thrusting her arm inside.
"Here's some clean underwear," she said.
"Thank you," Ian said, taking them from her. "I will be out shortly." 'If I can find the strength to move again,' he thought wearily, distressed by how weak and exhausted he still felt. He looked at the underwear. 'Boxers. It figures.' Even half awake, he'd been hard put not to stare at the expanse of bare skin Sara's own boxer shorts exposed. Her long, slender legs were muscular but shapely, and her feet were surprisingly dainty. Apparently, she'd felt no such compunction about staring: he'd felt her gaze on him as he unsteadily made his way to the bathroom.
It took him several minutes to don the shorts one-handed and when he came out of the bathroom, he was relieved to find the bedroom empty again. He wobbled over to the bed and sat down on it, managing to pull the cotton thermal blanket around himself with some difficulty before leaning back against the corduroy reading pillow and lifting his legs onto the bed, covering them and his lower body with the sheet. Sara had thoughtfully placed a towel over the reading pillow, which had gotten soaked with perspiration the night before. Ian smelled toast, butter, scrambled eggs, and peppermint tea. His stomach growled loudly, and he realized that, for the first time in days, he was famished.
Sara came into the bedroom moments later carrying a tray. "I made some scrambled eggs and toast and a fresh pot of peppermint tea. Think you could eat something?" she asked him.
"Yes, I think I could," he said.
Setting the tray down, she carefully climbed onto the bed to sit cross-legged beside him. She handed him a plate with three pieces of buttered toast and a steaming heap of scrambled eggs on it, which he balanced on his lap. They munched their breakfast in companionable silence, Sara obligingly handing him his mug of tea from time to time. Halfway through his third piece of toast, Ian felt his eyelids start to grow heavy and was unable to stifle a yawn.
"I think I will take a nap," he said, handing his plate to her. "Thank you for making breakfast, Sara."
"You're welcome, although I should probably warn you that this is about as good as it gets. I can't cook to save my life," she told him, putting their mugs and her own plate back onto the tray before scooting off the bed with it. "I nearly always burn the scrambled eggs. You were in luck today."
"I know how to make omelets. Cook taught me when I was a boy," Ian murmured, yawning again. "Perhaps I will make us omelets for breakfast tomorrow."
"That would be a neat trick with just one hand," Sara said, but he didn't respond, having fallen asleep again.
'A nap is a really good idea,' she thought as she did the dishes. Going back into the bedroom, she covered Ian with one of the down comforters and repositioned the pillow behind his tousled head so he wouldn't develop a crick in his neck. Other than heaving a small sigh, he didn't stir at her touch. Sara picked up the other down comforter with the intention of taking it out to the living room and making up the futon, but then decided she was just too tired to go through all that trouble. Shrugging, she crawled back onto the bed next to Nottingham, covered herself, and fell asleep listening to the comforting sound of his deep, steady breathing.
Her bladder's insistent signals brought her out of a dreamless sleep some time later. She started to sit up but then froze, simultaneously becoming aware of two things: that she was spooning with someone and that that someone was Ian Nottingham. He lay on his right side, as did she, his big, warm body touching hers from her calves to her shoulders, as if it was the most natural thing in the world and they had slept this way a thousand times before. Her head was resting on his right arm, and she was appalled to notice that a small pool of her saliva had gathered on his enormous bicep. Sara also realized that he had somehow managed to take off his sling and that his left arm was draped over her body, his muscular forearm right beneath her breasts. Color flooded her face as she also discovered that his hand had worked its way beneath her T-shirt, and was now cupping her right breast. Lifting her head and craning her neck, she looked at Nottingham's face, which was inches from her own, and was immediately struck by how young he looked when he was asleep. But then, unable to ignore her painfully full bladder any longer, she slowly and carefully grasped his left wrist and started to lift his arm. She froze as he stirred, murmuring something, and then bit back a gasp as his fingers flexed, brushing her breast. Glancing back at his face, she blinked as she met sleepy hazel eyes.
"Good morning, my Lady," he murmured, and she could feel the vibration of his words against her back.
"Uh, good morning," she said, and then cleared her throat. "I, uh, have to get up, so, um, could you, uh, move your arm?" She tapped his wrist, then bit her lip when this made his fingers brush her breast again.
Now it was his turn to blink. "Move my arm?" She saw his gaze travel downward. His eyes widened and she was fascinated to see color redden his cheeks. He snatched his hand from beneath her shirt as if it had been burned, and then flinched, wincing, his right hand going to his shoulder. Hastily, Sara put several inches between their bodies, and then sat up and glanced over at the bedside clock. 'That can't be right,' she thought. It said 8:30 a.m., and it had been 10:30 a.m. when she fell asleep. 'The power must have gone out or something,' she decided. But the clock wasn't blinking "12:00," which would have been a clear indication of a power outage, meaning she and Nottingham had slept for nearly 24 hours. 'No wonder I have to pee so badly,' she thought. 'He probably has to go, too!' she realized.
"I'll only be a minute," she mumbled, scrambling off the bed and disappearing into the bathroom.
When she came out, Ian was standing at the window staring out at the snow. She felt a stab of disappointment as she saw that he'd draped one of the cotton blankets around his shoulders, hiding his magnificent body from view.
"There must more than two feet on the ground," he said without looking around.
"And it's still coming down," she observed.
He glanced at her before looking outside again. "Yes, but not very heavily. I think it will stop soon."
"You do realize we slept for almost a whole day, right?"
"Yes. We must have needed it. I know I did." He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "If you will excuse me, my Lady," he murmured, and then stepped around her and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
'He really is shy,' Sara thought with some amusement. 'He can hardly bring himself to look at me, and I'm not even what you'd call scantily clad.' She decided to take pity on him. Going into the living room, she got out her toiletries and a change of clothes, deciding that she would take a much-needed shower and then get dressed.
"I'm gonna take a shower, but I'll keep it brief so there's some hot water left for you," she told him when he came out of the bathroom a moment later. She took a bath towel and a washcloth from the linen closet.
"I would also like to take a shower, but I do not have any clean clothing or toiletries with me," Ian said, eyes downcast.
"Ah, lucky for you, the guy who was renting this place is about your size. As long as we launder whatever you wear, I'm sure he wouldn't mind you borrowing some of his clothes." She nodded toward the wardrobe opposite the bed. "Everything you'll need is in there. And he left some shampoo and stuff in the bathroom, too. Or you could use my shampoo and bath gel if you don't mind smelling kinda girly," she told him.
One of his brief, almost-smiles made an appearance. "Thank you for the kind offer, my Lady," he murmured, bowing his head and glancing up at her through his lashes.
Sara started to enter the bathroom but paused. "I'm curious: Did you think those boxers I gave you were mine?" she asked him.
Again, his gaze briefly flicked in her direction. "I really had not given much thought as to where they came from," he lied.
"Huh. For the record, I wouldn't be caught dead in those," she said, eyeing what she could see of them. They were white satin covered with big, bright red hearts. She shrugged. "I just grabbed the first pair I found in the wardrobe," she lied, barely able to keep from smirking. "Well, I'll be out in ten minutes."
"Take your time, my Lady. I will make us breakfast while you are showering," he told her, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him and his ridiculous, borrowed shorts. "It should be done by the time you are finished."
"Omelets?" Suddenly, an image of Ian standing at the stove in nothing but those silly boxer shorts popped into her mind's eye, and she could not refrain from grinning.
"My specialty," he nodded, eyeing her askance.
"Yum. I'm starving! See you in a bit," she said and actually started to giggle before she could retreat into the bathroom.
The sneaking suspicion that her amusement was at his expense made Ian stare thoughtfully at the closed bathroom door for a long moment before he crossed to the wardrobe and began looking through it for a robe and a less eye-catching pair of underwear.
More to come. As always, thanks to all of you for your wonderful feedback. Please, keep it coming! Anyone care to take bets on how long Sara can resist jumping Ian's bones? Stay tuned!